polysemy
What does it mean to have a sense of self.
We live in narcissistic times in which the selfie reigns as the ultimate gesture of documenting the truth of one's living moment. The self is more than a reflection in a mirror.
I am experiencing this new James which is very close to the one I have known through time--twenty-nine years married this past Sunday. He has a myriad of recognizable attributes--his humor, ironic one-liners, sentimental tendencies, propensities toward superstition, a thriving empathy, a disgust of cruelty, his love for me and Imogen, and outrage over the inhumanity in the world--all this remains a constant. He emits raw, fresh emotions to me now--fear, melancholy, and a restless frustration with recovery. James sat tired next to me on the couch the other day and confessed that he is bored--I cannot think of anything worse than being bored with life.
It is difficult to be a muse for a person with short-term memory. James is living in the ever-present now and he must find his own impetus for inspiration from a foggy cognitive source. How do we draw from the well when the rope has fallen away from the bucket.
With my romantic tendencies, I was thinking that James's challenges would prove to be a source of inspiration. That assumption lacks pragmatism. It is another thing entirely to be estranged from oneself while simultaneously being unaware of being estranged!
We are mind and body--not brain and body. Yet, the brain is an overlord. James and I are tired of his brain and the meat of his motor function.
I want to return to my conversations with James about, say, the imagery in Eisenstein's films or Obama's foreign policy during his final years in the White House but I cannot. At times, when I speak to James about even every day things, such as Imogen's new math tutor, I see him grow tired and I am not sure if he's really digesting what I am saying.
When he was at Mt. Sinai for rehabilitation, if I started to speak to him with too much passion or excitement, he would stop me and say, "Too intense, too intense." He no longer has to quiet my enthusiasms but I do feel as if I am self-editing.
A friend at work asked me if I expected a full recovery for James. I confessed that I did not--I do not want to hold any presumptions about James's future capabilities. I love and accept him for the person that he presents to me. He should not be measured by any standard of apparent success.
There is not enough time in the day to prepare James for his future. I need to help him clear the studio of clutter. I want to provide him with the space to overcome boredom and to reach inside himself to discover that conversation with his soul--his true self--not the outer shell that is consuming his current days.
I am a true believer that there is a far greater depth and expanse to our inner landscapes--multiple layers of our selves that lay dormant because our lives are too preoccupied with easy amusements and distractions. I have supported James in his art practice because I had faith that through his making, he would communicate with this self and I would be a witness.
He is now a little alienated from his own sense of self and the way seems crowded with unrecognizable obstacles.
I feel a tinge of the fall coming through the window--the leaves are rustling.
James wrote me an email while I was at work during the electrical storm this afternoon. The subject line was "Come Home Now."
I feel on the cusp of becoming and I wonder if I am alone in this?
James and I face-timed with our brand new nephew tonight, George James. He sure is cute. We cannot wait to meet him in December. Perhaps, I am too much in my brain. I need to give George a kiss while James is holding him. That may be all the meaning necessary for the future time.
We live in narcissistic times in which the selfie reigns as the ultimate gesture of documenting the truth of one's living moment. The self is more than a reflection in a mirror.
I am experiencing this new James which is very close to the one I have known through time--twenty-nine years married this past Sunday. He has a myriad of recognizable attributes--his humor, ironic one-liners, sentimental tendencies, propensities toward superstition, a thriving empathy, a disgust of cruelty, his love for me and Imogen, and outrage over the inhumanity in the world--all this remains a constant. He emits raw, fresh emotions to me now--fear, melancholy, and a restless frustration with recovery. James sat tired next to me on the couch the other day and confessed that he is bored--I cannot think of anything worse than being bored with life.
It is difficult to be a muse for a person with short-term memory. James is living in the ever-present now and he must find his own impetus for inspiration from a foggy cognitive source. How do we draw from the well when the rope has fallen away from the bucket.
With my romantic tendencies, I was thinking that James's challenges would prove to be a source of inspiration. That assumption lacks pragmatism. It is another thing entirely to be estranged from oneself while simultaneously being unaware of being estranged!
We are mind and body--not brain and body. Yet, the brain is an overlord. James and I are tired of his brain and the meat of his motor function.
I want to return to my conversations with James about, say, the imagery in Eisenstein's films or Obama's foreign policy during his final years in the White House but I cannot. At times, when I speak to James about even every day things, such as Imogen's new math tutor, I see him grow tired and I am not sure if he's really digesting what I am saying.
When he was at Mt. Sinai for rehabilitation, if I started to speak to him with too much passion or excitement, he would stop me and say, "Too intense, too intense." He no longer has to quiet my enthusiasms but I do feel as if I am self-editing.
A friend at work asked me if I expected a full recovery for James. I confessed that I did not--I do not want to hold any presumptions about James's future capabilities. I love and accept him for the person that he presents to me. He should not be measured by any standard of apparent success.
There is not enough time in the day to prepare James for his future. I need to help him clear the studio of clutter. I want to provide him with the space to overcome boredom and to reach inside himself to discover that conversation with his soul--his true self--not the outer shell that is consuming his current days.
I am a true believer that there is a far greater depth and expanse to our inner landscapes--multiple layers of our selves that lay dormant because our lives are too preoccupied with easy amusements and distractions. I have supported James in his art practice because I had faith that through his making, he would communicate with this self and I would be a witness.
He is now a little alienated from his own sense of self and the way seems crowded with unrecognizable obstacles.
I feel a tinge of the fall coming through the window--the leaves are rustling.
James wrote me an email while I was at work during the electrical storm this afternoon. The subject line was "Come Home Now."
I feel on the cusp of becoming and I wonder if I am alone in this?
James and I face-timed with our brand new nephew tonight, George James. He sure is cute. We cannot wait to meet him in December. Perhaps, I am too much in my brain. I need to give George a kiss while James is holding him. That may be all the meaning necessary for the future time.
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